Nowhere Else to Run
by tromana
Summary: In which Jane and Lisbon grow inexplicably ever closer pre- and during Season 1. Jane/Lisbon.


**A/N: **So I could have put this in my collection, but I didn't feel like it really fit. Never mind, hey. And please can I stop feeling ill? I'm meant to be going to the theatre tomorrow...

x tromana

* * *

><p><strong>Title:<strong> Nowhere Else to Run  
><strong>Author:<strong> tromana  
><strong>Rating:<strong> T  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Jane/Lisbon  
><strong>Summary: <strong>In which Jane and Lisbon grow inexplicably ever closer pre- and during Season 1.  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> Not mine.  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> Attempted suicide.  
><strong>Notes: <strong>This holiday fic caused me a lot of hassle and a lot of fretting, but I think I'm happy (or at least, happy enough) with the end result? It also ended up being the longest one of written, so yes. For spyglass_ (and mentalistprompt).

**Nowhere Else to Run**

He nurses the glass of whiskey as if it were the most important thing in the world.

Maybe it is? He doesn't know if he can actually judge things right now. His eyes are perpetually red, too much crying, too much… something. He could be crying now, but now, he feels too tired.

His friends, the other conmen, the other hacks, keep saying that he should stop. That he's going too far. But what's the point?

The one thing that meant anything, his little girl, she's gone. With her mother.

How could he have not realized just how much they meant to him until they were gone?

"Excuse me, Sir?" a woman, petite with green eyes says to him. "But you've been asked to leave."

Her eyes are striking. But they're not blue. Not like Charlotte's. Not like Angela's.

"Sir," she repeats, as if he didn't hear her the first time around.

He looks around with red rimmed eyes and hers, surprisingly enough, are edged with concern. However, that doesn't stop her from flashing a badge, indicating that she's a cop. A member of the San Francisco Police Department, to be precise.

The barman looks relieved when Jane reluctantly stands. When he reaches the door, he notices that the man is almost grinning with relief that the drunkard is finally leaving. So, it took a cop to persuade him to finally make a move, but it's better than nothing.

She doesn't arrest him; no crime has been committed, technically. Besides, Jane knows that she probably recognizes him. That the information about his family's murder is statewide. Serial killers are big business, so even the lowliest of rookies have to be on the lookout for Red John.

Not that this woman is necessarily merely a rookie.

Curtly, she asks him for his address and he supplies her with one. It's not his home, just the one of the hotel he's staying at since he drifted to San Francisco. It costs far too much for a night, but when you have the money and means, why not? He doesn't have anyone else to spend the money on, not anymore.

He thinks again, of everything he's lost. Of all the time he wasted, peddling his craft, instead of watching his daughter grow up. Instead of spending time with the only woman he's ever truly loved.

Why couldn't he have realized just how important they were before?

When they arrive, the cop lady reminds him that she's been lenient this time. (Yes, he decides, she definitely knows what happened.) That next time, she won't behave quite so favorably towards him.

It's then that he decides there won't be a next time. If she _does_ see him again, it'll be when he's being loaded into a body bag.

xxx

Disappearing off the face of the earth is easier said than done. Especially so when you have a particularly famous face. Just whenever he thinks that he might have escaped from it all, that he's managed to shake off anyone who would have any compunction to follow him (ex-clients, supposed friends, his wife's relatives, Red John…), somebody somehow finds him once again.

He knows that vanishing would be a hell of a lot easier if he chose to leave the state of California, but he can't bring himself to doing that. This is the place where his family is buried; he wants to stay close to them. He wants to join them six feet under and desperately so. If he goes too far away, he'll end up being left, preserved, in some morgue where nobody would be able to identify him.

Yes, he has fame and fortune, but it doesn't extend across the entirety of the country. (Thank goodness.)

Right now, he feels stuck between a rock and a hard place. His urge, his yearning, to be alone, to end his life quietly and undisturbed and yet, he's desperate to remain close to his family. Or their physical remains at any rate.

Their loss isn't getting any easier to deal with. It may have occurred several months ago now, but it's getting increasingly suffocating. There's times when he literally cannot breathe thanks to the horror of their loss resting on his shoulders. Jane knows it's his fault, that it could have been avoided. And that's what makes it all the worse.

He might as well have killed them himself. Red John had just been the middleman, as such.

xxx

He heads to the mountains. It seems blindingly obvious now.

They're a barren wilderness, with no resources and no contact with the civilized world. It's the perfect way to escape. Only the most determined of persons could dare follow him and even then, they'd be hard pressed without the technology to do so. He'd explicitly left his cell phone down the mountain, tossing it carelessly in a dumpster before he'd even left the last city he'd resided in. Even so, he suspects that the signal would have died hours ago.

Besides, he doesn't want to have contact with the world. He's not looking for a place of safety; he's looking for a place to die. If something unexpected happens to him, then it would be all the better for him. It means he doesn't have to steel the courage to take his own life. It can then simply be classified as a tragic accident and be brushed aside, meaning nothing.

And then, it'll be over sooner than he expects.

Unfortunately, (or fortunately, according to some people) luck isn't on his side. He finds the cabin he's rented, under a pseudonym, of course. Doesn't bother to make himself comfortable; he only takes out the photographs of his wife and daughter and places them carefully on the mantelpiece. There's no point in doing anything more than that. It's not as if he's going to be in any fit state to enjoy any luxuries or mementoes from home for long. He just wants them to be with him until he takes that last, strangled gasp.

There is, however, one thing he does need to indulge in first and that's a good meal. Jane has always had a weakness for fine food and if he's going to leave the land of the living, then he might as well honor himself with that last right. It's what the most heinous of prisoners get before the injection, after all. Most (supposedly innocent) people don't even get the choice of what their last meal will be. Death just comes to them unprepared. At least this puts him an equal with the monster that killed his wife and child.

It doesn't take long to prepare. Simple, but effective, has always been his aim when cooking. His daughter had always adored his lasagna especially, so that's what he's having today. Physically, he'll be with her again soon. Spiritually, he, along with his wife, will be nowhere, non-existent. Life's just about the here and now. There's no such thing as the afterlife. That's just a foolish construct, thought up by human beings, to cling onto in times of desperation. The reality is so much grimmer than that; he couldn't fault them for looking for a little hope in their sorry existences.

Still, it isn't long until he's ready. There's no point in putting off the inevitable and there's only one way he's going about it.

xxx

His head feels like it's spinning when the door comes crashing down (literally).

He's not sure how much blood he's lost, whether it's enough to actually kill him just yet. All he knows that he hopes it is, that he's toppled over the cliff to oblivion and that there's no chance of recovery. It hurts, of course it does, but the pain is good. Cathartic, therapeutic. It's all he deserves. He killed his family. He led them to the slaughter, like the sacrificial lambs they were.

Red John just finished them off for him.

Dimly, he recalls the first cut, the one deep in his forearm. Then, he'd dipped his fingers into the blood oozing out of it, wincing as he did so. Daubing the blood onto the wall, in an all-too familiar pattern had just felt like the natural thing to do. If he was going to join his family, he might as well have done it properly.

After then, it grew hazy.

Now he can hear somebody desperately calling his name, urging him to remain painfully conscious. He's tired, he wants to sleep. He wants no, needs, it to be over. Soon, now, whatever. His thoughts have been unbearable enough as it is, but with this on top of it...

And people dared to call suicide the weak man's out.

There's a light touch to his shoulder and reluctantly, he squints through watering eyes. His vision is swimming when he peers upwards.

Vaguely familiar green eyes stare back down at him. She sighs, mostly out of relief, before calling for help.

Maybe he hadn't been as out of reach as he'd suspected.

xxx

When he wakes, a soft hand touches his left shoulder. He opens his eyes to see a flash of long light brown hair and briefly wonders if he's been wrong all along, if there is such a thing as the afterlife. However, the sharp stabbing pain in his abdomen and the discomfort in his arms suggests otherwise. If it did exist, then it would be painless, bliss, surely? Especially if she, his wife, were there.

There's no way she'd deserve the alternative. She'd been the closest thing he'd known to an angel, once upon a time. Not that there's such a thing as them.

He's bitterly disappointed that his companion is not his wife, of course, and also faintly surprised that it isn't the cop who is persistently following him. Then again, why would it be her? What interest does she have in him?

"Mr. Jane?" the voice is light and gentle. "My name is Sophie Miller. I'm here to help."

Here to help. What kind of a phrase is that? The petite brunette woman is probably assuming that's what she was doing too: helping.

"You had a close call there. If the cops hadn't found you…"

She trails off. He ignores her. What is he meant to say in response? Thank you?

"Seems you have a guardian angel, then," she says with a wry smile. "That's worth fighting for, yes?"

Jane laughs bitterly. That's irony for you. If he'd really had a guardian angel, somebody who wanted to help him do what's best, then she'd have helped him to die.

Instead, she'd pulled him from the brink. Something he cannot help but feel more than a little angry about.

xxx

Sophie helps.

Not in the way he expects, but she helps nevertheless.

It's not even all that much of a problem to convince her he's regained his sanity. Jane still has his skills; that's something he'll never lose. Really, it had always been just a case of him putting on the right masks and saying the right words to twist her around his little finger.

He cannot stay here if he's going to do what she suggested he does. Find a new purpose, a new reason to exist.

Or at least, to find an honorable way to throw his life away.

By taking down the bastard that killed his wife and child with him.

xxx

His first port of call, post release from the psychiatric institution and Sophie's grasp, is the CBI.

Jane's relieved that the Red John case hasn't been passed from pillar to post during his time inside. As a civilian, not to mention one that has a history of mental illness now, that would have made his quest so much harder.

For he has a contact at the CBI in the form of Virgil Minelli.

Before he'd turned his own life upside down, changed it into an existence, rather than actually living, Jane had worked with Minelli. The now-Special Senior Agent had been the Senior Agent in Charge of the Serious Crimes Unit. The one in dealing with Red John. That's how Jane had first come across the serial killer.

And to think he'd only volunteered his services because his wife had urged him to do good with his skills. To try and make up for all the less than moral dealings he'd carried out. The irony that that is what killed her is not lost on him.

But that's beside the point.

He's here for a job.

Minelli's promotion is a pleasant surprise. He doesn't know who's replaced him yet, to head up the SCU, but trusts the man has made a sound decision. He may be straighter than the straightest of arrows and so by the book that he sometimes wants to hit him around the head with it, but Jane knows Minelli is a good man.

And that it'll be easy enough to persuade him that he should consult on the Red John case once more. After all, he can read Minelli like an open book.

xxx

Jane doesn't get what he wants.

Well, not exactly.

He only wants to consult on Red John; that's the only case he has any interest in. Any others? Mindless digressions from his quest, the conclusion he's aiming towards. A distraction, utter pointlessness.

Minelli, however, has other ideas. And is as single-minded as ever.

He also wants his money's worth and insists that Jane is hired full time, consulting for the Serious Crimes Unit, underneath Agent Lisbon.

When faced with either that, or nothing, it's a surprisingly easy choice for him to make.

xxx

"You?"

He frowns when he finally meets his new boss. Of all the cops in all of California, Virgil Minelli just had to give _her_ his old job, didn't he?

He'd recognize those eyes anywhere.

xxx

"What were you thinking? You could have been hurt or worse,-"

Lisbon's on an angry tirade. There's a delicious flash of anger in her green eyes. Jane decides quickly to make a mental note of that; some little details are worth keeping. Passionate women have always intrigued him and therefore, it's hardly surprising that Senior Agent Teresa Lisbon fits the bill _perfectly_.

"-gotten yourself killed."

She allows herself to breathe and plants her hands on her hips. A typical, aggressive posture, ideal for a cop. It makes her look more menacing, far bigger than her petite frame ordinarily allows.

He apologizes, but doesn't really mean it.

Though he still wants to drag Red John down into the grave with him, he still wouldn't object to go before him and leaving him to professionals.

xxx

He soon finds that the couch is surprisingly comfortable.

Since the death of his family, Jane has avoided the pleasures of life. It's his way of punishing himself, of ensuring he lives how he deserves to.

After all, he still staunchly believes that the wrong people died. In lieu of his wife and daughter, it should be him six feet under, and them learning to live without him. Not that they would have much to miss.

Though he had tried to be a good father, Jane had never been home that much. Work always pulled him away in different directions. Rarely was he ever in the same county as them, never mind city.

That didn't mean he didn't treasure the quiet moments they did share together. Nor does it make their loss any easier to bear.

If anything, it's harder, because now he wishes he'd taken his wife's advice and that he'd given up the old psychic business. Or at least, scaled down to allow more time for family. The money he'd been stashing away for the future, to give them financial security (something he'd never been able to rely upon while growing up) when they were older would never buy that time back.

So now, he spends it on the only thing that makes sense: hunting down Red John. The CBI's rate of pay is deplorable at best. His savings should be able to support him for however long this task takes.

They don't need to last any longer than that, at any rate.

Still, he allows himself three little luxuries: tea, food and the couch. The first two allow his existence to continue. The latter gives him freer thought. Allows him to plot and plan and work out where he's going to go next.

It also keeps him away from a certain Senior Agent.

Spending time with her seems… dangerous, in a way.

xxx

"One more thing…"

She turns to look at him, surprised that he didn't leave. Jane knows that the realization that he'd suffered a serious mental breakdown, that he'd been institutionalized shouldn't have come as such a shock to her, but it has. Lisbon may not know what it's called, but her memory palace clearly has cast iron defenses. So much so that she can barely access some of her old memories herself.

"Was it you who signed the forms that led to my being…"

He trails off. Admitting just how serious his breakdown had been post-suicide attempt had been surprisingly draining. There's only so much talk about his own death that he can bear in one day.

Especially to her, of all people.

Though she was present, though she had been the one to save his life, he still feels guilty. To her, she had probably just been doing her job. It had been routine, part of her day to day life. But Jane, he was – and still is – ashamed by it all.

Not least because he's been working in close contact with his supposed guardian angel (as Sophie had once referred to her as) for quite some time now.

Not a day goes by when he isn't reminded of the fact he wouldn't be here now, if it wasn't for Lisbon.

Her eyes widen slightly and wordlessly, she shakes her head. She isn't lying; why would she? All that would cause is more heartache, more misery.

Somehow, it comes as a relief to know that she hadn't been the one to have him committed, even if she had saved his life. Sort of, anyway.

Many would say he owes her for that.

And he doesn't find it at all strange that it takes Sophie being involved in a case for him to remind Lisbon of his less than perfect mental health. After all, as far as he's concerned, the two of them are inextricably linked when it comes to making him the man he is today.

xxx

He'd imagined the explosion, the searing heat, the sound, the smoke, the flames just seconds before it happened. Briefly, Jane had toyed with the idea of staying beside the van, of being destroyed along with the vehicle and James Medina.

It's only Lisbon's begging, distant at first, then increasingly louder, that tears him away from it.

And just in time as well.

Though not without repercussions, of course. Jane can't remember the last time his luck has been anything other than bad. And being plunged into an inky blackness due to his own sheer blockheadedness is definitely not fortuitous.

For somebody so reliant on his sight, losing it comes as a blow.

Jane knows just how terrified Lisbon had been. She makes it all too clear with her words and actions. He doesn't need his sight to be aware of all that.

He's relieved that she still makes sure he's cared for, that somebody is always with him, looking after him. She doesn't seem to like the idea of him being alone. The presence of a doctor, nurse or one of the team is preferable to nobody at all. Just because she's angry, it doesn't mean she can switch off that mother hen instinct that's been instilled into her since childhood.

To be honest, it's not much different to her usual care and concern. Especially so since his not-so-subtle reminder that she had been up that mountainside with him, just a couple of years ago. It feels so long ago now, almost ancient history. And equally, for him, it feels like just yesterday.

He still has the scars, both physically and mentally.

They'll only disappear when he does.

He's come to the conclusion that maybe she believes that the loss of vision will be detrimental to his mental health.

Yes, it would be hard to deal with, but Jane knows how to adapt. He's like a chameleon; he changes to suit his environment. He was once a con-artist come family man. Now, he's a husk of a man, living out his days in search of vengeance.

(And fighting demons and feelings that just should not be there, not that he'll tell anybody else that.)

But still, even he can't hide the look of relief when light and colors and contrast come flooding back into his world.

Especially so when Lisbon's is the first face he sees in all too long.

Briefly, he wonders if she's gaining a little bit of a reputation there.

xxx

Closer, closer…

He needs her, she's there.

He doesn't need her and she's still there.

Jane wonders what he's done to deserve her faith (though, not her trust) in him.

xxx

He had him there. Between his fingers, practically.

Dumar Hardy was a weak soul; he'd spilled his guts about just how much he'd loved Maya Plaskett within seconds.

If he'd been put into an investigation room with Cho for an hour or two, then he would have broken down easily.

If he were still alive, that is.

But if Dumar Hardy were still alive, then Teresa Lisbon wouldn't be.

Out of instinct, he'd shot Hardy to save her life. And if he had to make the decision again, Jane knows he would take the same option each and every time.

Because though he knows he shouldn't care about her, he does.

It scares him, just how attached he's grown to the petite agent, and so quickly too, relatively speaking. She's a little firecracker, that one. And there's a reason why she's already heading up a unit and why Minelli entrusts her with the not so insignificant task of trying to ensure he toes the line. Jane knows he's a handful and on occasion, plays on the fact.

But caring is dangerous.

It leads to a broken heart, a broken soul.

Just how many more times can he shatter before he'll be unable to physically operate any longer?

He came close, once before. Unintentionally, she'd intercepted, pulled him back from the brink.

If it happens again, he knows he'll pass the point of no return.

And it doesn't take a mind reader to realize that Lisbon would indeed be a tipping point.

Not that she seems to know that, of course.

He wonders if she'll ever stop trying to save his life.

Some people just don't want to be saved.

Then again, if she's going to keep doing the saving…

Well, he might as well repay the compliment, whenever he can. Fighting fire with fire can work, on occasion…


End file.
